On Saturday, Monkey and I finally got our hairs cut. We had needed an appointment for quite some time, but my stylist was traveling in Hong Kong for three weeks. More than a cut, I really needed color — my hair was especially dry, for one thing; the grays were creeping back, for another; and for a third, I was losing my fondness for being a redhead. And DearDR wanted a trim, too.

Here’s a little photo essay.
Before the Cuts:

Leopard Sisters:

Quote from Monkey, “Are you taking out the white, Mommy?” I didn’t think my gray hair was quite that noticeable. Thank you, Monkey.

Quote from my stylist, to Monkey, “Don’t worry, you can give her some more in just a minute.”

After, Monkey:

You can finally see her eyes again! I like the length on the sides and in the back, too.

Monkey has very pretty hair, straight, shiny, and soft (we use conditioner). On her last visit, my mom commented on how pretty her hair was. Then added, “Your hair was never that nice.”

Gee, thanks, Mom.

“No, but it wasn’t,” she said defensively. “You always had a kink or a wave in it. It just didn’t lay nice.”

Hence, short hair for me. Since about eighth grade.

Mommy, After I:

My stylist overruled you all. Sorry. When I showed him the blog post, he laughed heartily (and my stylist has a seriously hearty laugh — he’s about 6′5″) and said, “Like this is a democracy.” He pointed to 3. “That’s what we’re doing.” I said that most everyone who had commented really liked 2. “I know I need to grow it –” I started.

My stylist interjected: “Look, that is a great cut for you. But Monkey and Bun will be in college before your hair is that long.” (I think he was exaggerating.) “We’re going to start here [# 3] so you can eventually get there [# 2].”

Mommy, After II:

This is how it looks after my stylist does my hair. I may ask to go darker next time.

And, yes, that is my kitchen and dining room. My stylist comes to my house.

Mommy, After III:

The Zoolander pose. Does my nose look big?

This is what it looks like after I style my hair myself.

And finally, Mommy, After IV:

Thought to myself, “At least smile a little, woman!” It’s hard taking pictures in a mirror.

Yeah, it was a busy, busy weekend, and it’s going to be a week of stress and late nights. Steelers, election, preparing for a 4-year-old’s birthday party, happy hour with people from work. Plus, the daily.

But I do have a couple of things I want to post about.

Obviously, I made the decision to not NaBloPoMo. I mean, we’re three days in, and here’s my first post of November. I’m bummed about it, because it is a good thing for me to do in terms of site traffic and my own writing. But I also know it’s the right decision, because, as the short list above illustrates, I gotta whole lot o’ lotta going on. As much as I love the challenge and exercise of posting every day, this year, I have to give myself a break.

On the other hand, I am seriously considering, come Jan. 1, to attempt Blog365.

And besides, there is always Plurk. Which I completely missed this weekend, and I have a lot to catch up on there.

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Two conversations overheard in Costco this weekend:

A hippie dad saying to his two children, explaining the vaccination poster by the ladies’ room: “Well, that’s about doctors, who really shouldn’t be trusted. They give unnecessary shots to kids, and they don’t do what’s best for their patients.”

What??!

It took a lot of self control to not stop on the spot and confront him. I understand distrust of the medical community, especially for people of my generation, but I think the answer, rather than indoctrinating our kids against doctors is to actually teach them to be stewards of their own care. Ask questions, get information, participate in your health. And while I agree that the vaccination schedule for children is overly aggressive, I think the answer is to work with your pediatrician to spread out the shots. I think not vaccinating your children at all is very, very risky.

Later, a mom to her 2- or 3-year-old son, who was obviously getting upset at not getting to eat Costco pizza (I heartily empathize): “Oh, look. I think I see the police outside. You better not cry or disobey mommy or they’ll come take you away.”

What??!

Threatening your children with the police? What kind of message is that?

Monkey is learning about police and firefighters at her preschool. The basic message, which I try to reinforce when she asks questions, is: These people are here to help you. You can trust them. I wouldn’t dream of telling her that the police are going to take her away for being bad.

To top it off, the mother gave into her child’s demands, and instead of going to a restaurant, they ate at Costco. Parenting FAIL!

Also, I did end up having a very pleasant conversation with the hippie dad and his wife as we were all eating our pizza. Their two children, a boy and a girl, were adorable, and Monkey was clearly fascinated by the whole family, notably the father’s beard which was much longer than her daddy’s neatly trimmed facial hair. I did not bring up what I overheard him saying about doctors though. No need to throw down at the local warehouse shopping club.

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Monkey is showing a great awareness of driving rules. She always reminds me to stay on “this side” of the lines. “Because then cars will crash into you, if you drive on the other side.” I’ve been explaining, in very basic terms, double yellow lines, broken white lines, and solid white lines. Sunday, I introduced the concept of the shoulder. I pointed out the solid white line to the right, and said, “I can’t cross that white line either. That’s the shoulder of the road, and you shouldn’t drive on the shoulder. It’s for emergencies.”

As we were driving back home, I took an exit ramp off of route 60. “Mommy, don’t forget,” Monkey piped up, “don’t drive on the elbow.”

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Lastly, and I am shocked — shocked — to report this: I started my Christmas shopping this weekend. I’ve got three nephews and my niece crossed off the list already. It helps that Costco has great prices on some pretty neat things, and also other retailers are offering rock-bottom prices, plus $10 gift cards for spending a certain amount of money. I’ve got $20 to blow in two stores before the holidays! Shopping WIN!

Knock-Knock

I am sometimes quite amazed at the simple fact that all children move through similar social phases.

As Exhibit A, allow me to present Monkey, who has just discovered knock-knock jokes.

As we were sitting at a local eatery last night, Monkey declared, “I want to tell knock-knock jokes.”

I’m game.

She starts:

Monkey: Knock knock.
Me: Who’s there?
Monkey: Hoosa.
Me (utterly mystified): Hoosa who?
Monkey: Hoosa Mommy!

Now Monkey is quite the one to make up words and names—she still plays Gusk the Dog quite often (a post for a different day). And this is her pattern in knock-knock jokes: Say a word, often a made up one, then say that word with “you” or “mommy” after it.

Cracks herself up.

I know that she is far from understanding what makes a knock-knock joke work (i.e. The Pun), but I throw a couple more sophisticated ones her way (boo who, banana-banana-orange), and she is utterly mystified herself. Her funniest ends, “Banana orange don’t be sad!!” It makes me laugh.

What’s your favorite knock-knock joke? Leave it in the comments. After “boo” and “banana-banana-orange” I’m out of ideas, so I’m looking for some new ones. My favorite, interrupting cow, is FAR above Monkey’s adorable little head. It’s in the goofy (and family-friendly) video below.

Bun looks curiously at my face, specifically, at my chin where a recent pimple is healing. (Yes, I’m 37 and still get the occasional pimple. Aren’t hormones great?)

“Hurwt?” she asks. “Boo boo, mama?”

“Yes,” I answer, surprised (and laughing a bit at her concerned face). “Pimple.”

“Pimm..ble,” she says. “Hurwt?” she asks again.

“Yes,” I say. “Will you kiss it?”

She gives me a fat, wet kiss on my chin. “Mmmmwha!”

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Monkey throws a huge fit when we get home, after I carefully explain that dinner is already cooked and I am just warming it up, and it’s hard for her to help me cook dinner because I’m dealing with hot stuff on the stove — and she just lays down on the floor and starts screaming. I don’t understand everything she is saying, but I do hear, “Don’t say that to me” (a new favorite phrase) and “Go AWAY!” Bun is crying now, too. I am losing my mind.

I give Bun a kiss, and set her on the couch. I carry Monkey to her room, and just leave her there with the door closed.

I get Bun settled to eat, and go back to talk to Monkey. She, too, has calmed down.

I sit on her bed, and she comes over to me. I say, “I don’t get to see you all day.” Pause. “So when we are together, I don’t like us yelling at each other.” More silence, but that’s okay. I can tell she is listening by the simple fact that she is not talking — about anything. Monkey talks a lot, about the slightest thing that catches her attention.

“Okay?” I say. “Ready to go eat dinner?”

“Okay, mama,” she says. And holds my hand as we go downstairs.

And eats three helpings of dinner, plus a “push-up” yogurt, as she calls it. Gotta talk to the daycare to see how much she is actually eating at lunch.

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As we are driving home one night, I am explaining to Monkey that it is autumn now. I say, “Summer’s over.” She repeats, “Summer’s over?” I say, “Yep.”

“We have a Summer at school,” she offers.

“Oh,” I say.

“She’s probably at home now,” she says. As it is 7 p.m., I would say this is a safe assumption.

Not sure which “school” she means (St. J’s or the Presby dayschool, as they call it), I say, “Do you mean she’s with you at St. Joe’s?”

She answers, “No, she’s probably at home now.” Like, der, mom.

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I found what Slate had to say about corporal punishment in the home very sobering. I have spanked my children, or grabbed them a little harder than was strictly necessary, and after reading this, I am vowing to STOP putting my hands on my children in a violent way. No More. I’ll give myself timeouts if I feel the need to slap a hiney. Because I admit I have thought about slapping Monkey in the face, and I don’t like that feeling — the rush of violence, the aftermath of it. It makes me feel ill, nauseous. And I haven’t even slapped her, just felt the urge.

Which is not to say I won’t get angry at my children. Because I will. They drive me nuts sometimes. I just will find another way to deal with it than spanking or grabbing.

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And holy cow! I am a political person, but not on this blog (although… more on that when I get to my long-delayed book post). But I cannot resist asking you to check out these two posts from Julia at I Won’t Fear Love, and their comments. These are subjects and issues that set my head aflame, and this amazing woman — who has a weeks-old infant!! — has written two amazing, nuanced posts about them. I agree with a lot of what she has to say, and I also am floored by the dialogue in the comments, which are also nuanced and well-argued (even the ones with which I agree much less). No flaming, no name-calling, no “I’m taking my comment and going home” attitude. No rudeness.

We mothers and women really should throw ALL the bums out. And take over.

Plus, her daughter’s nickname is Monkey! Just like one of mine.

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And finally: laugh or cry, but this got my attention. (By one of my favs, Her Bad Mother.)

Listen, I’m sorry not to be here, and I’m basically showing up to simply say: I won’t be here in any quantity for awhile. I’m slammed at work and at home — everyone’s fine, by the way. I just can’t get any quality writing time.

New Cute Thing: Bun, walking up to me with something in her hand (from a barrette found on the floor to sections of the newspaper) and saying, “Hewre” (translation: Here, mama, I found this and am giving it to you.) Several times in a row. Also, offering me — or anyone — food (real or imagined) with this: “Bite?” Or, sometimes, “Bite!”

Hope to have something (good) to say, and time in which to say it, soon.

Because I’m too tired for words.

Here are some images Monkey managed to capture before she dropped the camera in the sink. (For the record, the camera works now, but the flash does not.)

I’m going to start calling her Annie Lebowitz. (And just sue me if I spelled that wrong — too tired to look it up, even).

“What’s in here?”

“Cheeeeeezzze” and Chocolate:

I can’t even think of anything clever here. If I had the energy (and the commenters) I would run a contest. What the heck? Name the picture. I’ll figure out something:

Horsey-face Mommy:

A More Reasonable Distance:

The Babysitter’s Shirt:

Is This Thing On?

And now we come to Monkey’s favorite subject: Her sister, Bun.

Bun One:

Bun Back:

Bun Two:

Bun Blur:

Bun Bangs I:

Bun Bangs II:

Because the weather has been spectacular in the evenings, and because all this week I have somehow managed to feed my children and myself (hint: cook lots on the weekend) AND get the kitchen cleaned up before 6 p.m., we been taking long rambling walks around my neighborhood.

The primary benefit of these constitutionals has been that my kids pass out at bedtime. Bun sleeps straight through, meaning if she loses her binky in the middle of the night, she has been too exhausted to notice. Monkey is back to her room, with a night light, the door open, and a gate up, and she is so tired, I think she falls asleep before she can plan her escape.

Secondary benefits include exercise for me, and meeting new people, like the family down the street with two girls (7 and 5) and a 2-year-old boy.

Some evenings, we stroll up to the church and convent, where they have a prayer labyrinth (by most standards, a dinky one, but still). The kids race around it while I pace slowly, usually as of late, thinking of Gabriel.

Other times, we walk down the street that branches off of ours. Over the past few months, I’ve been meeting my neighbors (finally, after three years — I’m not good at meeting new people). The couple at the bottom of the hill has a dog that the kids like to pet. There are lots of kids around, ranging in age from Bun at 19 months to a couple of young teenagers. They all hang out, play in one yard or another. I have met some of the parents, and after their initial shyness (well, Bun’s has been ongoing; she is the youngest by almost a whole year) the girls usually join in the activity. (Bun will pretty much do anything Monkey does.)

One of the children is Monkey’s new friend whom I wrote about here. I’ll just call him 7. Two nights ago, 7 was grounded, so we didn’t get to see him, but last night he was allowed out, and his sister, Bun, Monkey, 7, and I walked up to what they referred to as “the maze”.

As we trailed back toward home, 7 wanted to know if he could come over and play. I said no as it was bath time for the girls. So we were saying goodbye where 7’s street and our street met.

You would have thought Monkey was going to be separated from 7 for years and years instead of a day or so. She lagged, she pouted, she sighed; she even walked with him a little way down his street. As we walked up the hill toward our house, she kept turning around and waving. “‘Bye, 7!” she would call forlornly.

Shoulders slumping, she followed Bun and me. Heaving a great sigh, she told me, “I miss him.” She told me this a couple of times. I assured her we would probably see 7 in the next day or two.

Then she announced, “Mommy, I love him!” in a voice throbbing with emotion. Like the emotion a 15-year-old has when she’s been told she can’t see her 20-year-old boyfriend. I wasn’t expecting to hear that voice until she was at least verging on puberty.

I have no clue as to how to deal with a lovesick 3-year-old.

I can’t wait until the phase where she thinks boys are disgusting creatures with cooties. She will go through that phase, right?

Or (I ask again), should I send DearDR for that gun?

I could not be happier that the weekend is over and that I can spend most of the week sitting at my desk. I seriously overdid it this weekend, especially at a Burgh Mom’s get together at the zoo, and a long day of sitting is in order.

The Pittsburgh Zoo was awesome, however. I just need to get something to attach to my stroller so it can carry two toddlers, because Monkey was seriously flagging by the time we were heading back to the car. I decided that giving her a piggy-back ride (why is it called a piggy-back ride?) part of the way would be a good plan. Not so much. The small of my back was very bad on Sunday.

Much thanks to my fellow Burgh Mom attendees who were kind enough not to lose us in the crowd out of sheer embarrassment of being seen with me and my children. You see, by the time we all met up, my children — at a perfectly dry day at the zoo — were covered in mud. I proceeded to get quite filthy myself, and I can’t remember the last time I was so happy to take a shower at 3 p.m.

How did such a thing happen?

I managed to park myself in the concession area next to the only mud puddle in the whole zoo. It wasn’t too bad when Monkey decided to step in it; true to form, Monkey was wearing her rain boots. Not because it looked rainy, of course; Saturday was a gorgeous, if hot, day to stroll the zoo. The problem was when Bun, also true to form, decided she was going to do exactly what her big sister was doing. Unfortunately, Bun was not wearing her rain boots. I thought sneakers were a much more reasonable choice.

Silly me.

I could have engaged in a public battle royale with my younger daughter regarding the puddle of mud and her desire to splash in it. Changing tables wasn’t much of an option as it was already close to noon and the place was crowded. I was already sharing my table with two other moms (not the people I was here to meet, but that was okay) and their two kids.

In the end, though, I just let Bun have her fun. First of all, the mud puddle pretty much guaranteed that my children were not going to wander off. Secondly, I was able to just sit for a period of time as I looked for the people I was meeting. Third, I figured “kids playing in mud puddle” was an easy landmark. And lastly: Dirt washes off.

So Bun and Monkey tromped and splashed in the puddle. I managed to keep them from splashing others, which was good. They got some laughs, and I got some glances of sympathy. (Monkey was already getting a lot of comments as her outfit consisted of a cute little orange, red, white and black skort with a white tank — and pink rain boots.)

After us Burgh Moms finished lunch and/or snacks, I got Bun stripped out of her wet and muddy shoes, socks and shorts. For some reason I had dry shoes and socks for Monkey but not for Bun — serious oversight there — so Bun spent the rest of the walk in her stroller, bare feet propped up on her tray. She was lounging. We saw the monkeys and gorillas; all the kids seemed to like each other and get along together, although Alexis was very shy for awhile.

We took off before this fun ensued, and it took us another hour to get to the car (the Pittsburgh Zoo is BIG). Monkey developed a little crush on Gina’s boy, who (and I’m seconding Burgh Baby’s Mom here) needs to be cloned, or at least loaned to mothers of little girls for days at the zoo or similar outings. He was very sweet, and I think Monkey would have followed him into the lion’s den if he was going, and it was quite a trick to separate her from him.

Boy, you’ve got a job if you ever want one.

At bedtime, along with all the animals that we recounted seeing at the zoo, Monkey added, “And I talked to The Boy. I was very shy at first, but then I talked to him!” She smiled to herself at the memory. Oh, dear, I’ve a 3-year-old going on teen. We are so doomed!

I left that zoo sweaty and filthy — those shorts may never be clean again — but it was totally worth it to spend that time with my girls, and meet other bloggin’ moms and their kids. What a good time. Next time I meet the Burgh Moms, though, I hope air conditioning and alcohol will be involved, the kids will be at home, and nary a mud puddle will be in sight. I think I will be able to make a little better of an impression that way.

I am having a deep dilemma. (In so far as blogging dilemmas go, anyhow.)

I really want to write about the X show, and my unique experience of it.

I want to write about what it was like to suddenly be in 1996 again, only this time with my husband, and the knowledge that I had to get up early the next day to take care of my kids.

But it is the Wednesday* after a long weekend, and somehow these things have lost their immediacy.

You may think that I would have had the opportunity, over the long weekend, to actually write about these things. Clearly, this is not the case.

The weekend was very busy. I have to say, it was a good one.

Friday night, for all of its attendant strangeness, was great fun.

Saturday, I bought my herbs, and two tomato plants, and I managed to get them repotted, even with my 3-year-old helping me.

Sunday I got a lot done, too, although DearDR, for all of his good intentions, did not come close to accomplishing what he set out (to plan) to do. Poor DearDR — his “adventures” this weekend would make a whole blog entry themselves.

Bun said several new words this weekend: eye; bug; boo-boo; eat, also making the sign; “mite-mite” for goodnight; “kay” for okay, and a couple of times something suspiciously like thank you, sounding like “tank-oh”. I think she is trying to say Monkey’s name, too.

Much puddle splashing was accomplished (Bun’s nickname on Monday: Stinky McWetpants), and plant watering, and bubble-blowing, and dancing, and digging in dirt.

And then I still have this back-log of experience of Friday night that will not go away. I am going to have to write about it, although it has little to do with my kids or my experience as a mother, which, ostensibly, this blog is about.

Guess I better get on it.

* I had every intention of downloading video and uploading this post yesterday. But then I got a call from Day Care Lady that Monkey had been crying all day and complaining that her ear hurt. I honestly did not believe her at first — Monkey had been great all weekend, more than great. But a 7 p.m. trip to the pediatrician confirmed her fourth ear infection in five months, with the added bonus of a perforated eardrum. We’ll be seeing an ENT (ear-nose-throat) specialist (and a chiropractor) in the next few weeks to figure out what is next.

I have switched up the girls’ bedtime routine a little bit. Bun wasn’t dropping off right away in any case, and it saves me one up-and-down the stairs trip.

I take them together, now, after our nighttime treat and video. We all pile on my glider for a book (lately it’s been “On the Day You Were Born”, which is beautifully written and illustrated — we’ve read it so many times that I almost don’t cry when we reach the end — oops, off topic here…), then I send Monkey to wait in her room while I sing Bun a lullaby and lay her in her crib.

Then Monkey and I brush our teeth, she goes potty, and I sing two lullabies to her before lots of hugs and kisses for the night.

Last night, Monkey decided to go potty without me, which is not unusual.

What was unusual was the way she was standing in front of the potty with her legs and her, ahem, pudenda pressed up against the bowl.

“What are you doing?” I asked. My bewilderment was already giving away to suspicion that I knew exactly what she was attempting to do.

“I’m standing up to pee,” she replied.

Of course.

“Honey, you can’t stand up to pee. Girls have to sit down.”

“Oh.”

I got her sitting on the potty.

“Do you sit down every time, Mommy?”

“Yes, I do. Girls have to sit down.”

Pause. I knew it was coming:

“Daddy doesn’t sit down every time.”

“No, honey.” It was my turn to pause. How much do I explain now?

“See, honey, daddy has a penis. That’s why he can stand up and pee.”

“Oh.”

That seemed to be the end of the conversation. But I’m sure we’ll have many more like it in the years to come.

What would you/do you/did you tell your daughter?

I am 20 away from 100 things about me. I have definitely hit a block, not only in terms of what else there could be to tell you, but also in terms of time. Way, way short on time. Stress, though? Got that.